


Into You Like a Train

by Blake



Category: The Man From U.N.C.L.E. (2015)
Genre: Anal Sex, Bad Spies, Bathroom Sex, Gray Area Relationship, Illya goes into gay trances, Illya is a Prude, Lots of spit, M/M, Napoleon is a Tease, Not First-Time, Rimming, Second-Hand Embarrassment
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-01-21
Updated: 2016-01-21
Packaged: 2018-05-15 07:18:38
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,878
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5776591
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Blake/pseuds/Blake
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Napoleon is making obscene public displays to win the attention of a woman doesn't seem to notice.  Illya notices.  Illya cringes in embarrassment.  Illya wishes Napoleon would at least turn around and look at him with his stupid twinkling eyes, so that Illya could laugh the whole thing off instead of growing increasingly uncomfortable.</p>
<p>Illya is confused.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Into You Like a Train

Illya can tell after the first thirty minutes that Napoleon’s efforts are—as Napoleon would say—falling flat.

Miss Rowelson, owner of the property they are currently walking the length of, does not appear to be amused, let alone compelled, by the standard, laboratory-perfected seduction techniques being thrown at her. Any minute now, Napoleon should figure out the same, and try a different approach to their mission.

But Napoleon does not appear to figure it out. In that thirty-first minute, Illya watches Napoleon stop Miss Rowelson with a hand to her elbow, step into her space, and pull out an imaginary piece of vegetation from the tied-up mess of her brownish grey hair. Several meters behind them, Illya slows to a stop, watching in confusion. This hair-vegetation trick is one of Napoleon’s many deceptions he uses on missions that necessitate seduction.

The strange thing is that, as Illya remembers it, this mission does not necessitate seduction. Yet the fact that Napoleon _keeps trying_ is making Illya doubt his memory of the debriefing. He got very few hours of sleep last night, as he spent the hours before the early summer dawn assisting Napoleon with a break-in to the next property over, experiencing the aching worry of hearing Napoleon’s radio cut out, and then watching in strained silence from the bushes as Napoleon was thrown roughly onto the gravel driveway and kicked by the guards who caught him… It had been an exhausting night and morning. Perhaps he had misunderstood Gaby’s instructions.

_Get information, any information, on the man who sold her the property two years ago_ , Illya hears in his mind as though playing back a tape recording of the conversation. _It’s one of five properties along this stretch of coast that were sold at an unreasonably convenient price in the same month. It’s obvious that someone wanted to get rid of the property, fast. Waverly suspects it’s a man from another case he has agents on, so we need a name. Even if it’s an alias. If you can, get a glimpse of the deed. Pose as prospective buyers, historian tourists, I don’t care. Just get the information._

Illya watches Miss Rowelson walk on in her businesslike fashion as though Napoleon had never stopped her in the first place. He watches Napoleon spring after her without a glance back at Illya, and recalls the rest of Gaby’s words. _She seems to be in her forties, unmarried. Maybe unhappily so. Maybe that’s something you can work with._

There was nothing about relentlessly pursuing the affections of the lady after she already offered to show them the property on her way to the train station, even though it was “decidedly not” for sale.

Napoleon is not making sense.

Illya wants to pull his partner aside and tell him that he should attempt a different tactic. However, they are walking across the English downs, and there is nothing but rolling hills of green summer grass in sight. No privacy, no excuse to pull anyone aside.

Also, no vegetation that could land in someone’s hair, nor any breeze that could carry any vegetation into someone’s hair. That ploy was not well chosen. Napoleon is not making sense.

With his long stride, Illya has caught up enough to the other two to hear when Napoleon says, “Pardon me, it appears my shoe has unlaced itself.”

It is an inoffensive phrase, but Illya knows what happens next.

Napoleon bends over at the waist This displays both his flexibility and the curve of his backside pressed taut against his trousers. Illya immediately thinks of the skin underneath, and he feels his face flush. He thinks of the oval mark, on the right side, just above the thigh. He knows the mark is there because he put it there with his teeth two nights ago.

Now, in the light of the hot sun, and even this morning, when he was cleaning Napoleon’s wounds and first noticed the mark, Illya feels a mixture of surprise, excitement, pride, and shame. _He_ left that mark there, with his teeth. It seems unspeakable. It _is_ unspeakable, which is why, even this morning when he noticed it, he didn’t ask Napoleon about its origin. He only remembered, and felt confusion churning in his gut. He put his _mouth_ there. _There_. And not just there, but _inside him_. Nothing he does with Napoleon…of that nature…is planned out in advance. There is no thought to it. Once Napoleon goads him past a certain point, Illya is led solely by some instinctive, unreasonable link between his body and Napoleon’s reactions: Napoleon arches up into Illya’s mouth on his shoulder, so Illya kisses an inch lower; Napoleon’s muscle jumps beneath that, so Illya bites down the length of his spine; Illya follows the trail carved out by Napoleon’s impossibly clear desire, until he’s mouthing all across the backs of his thighs and even _between_ them because it feels somehow like the easiest thing in the world, to give this body beneath him exactly what it wants.

It is like that every time, as it was the first time: Napoleon’s desires disturbingly easy to read, or else Illya disturbingly skilled at reading him. It’s as easy as following a path of light in the dark.

Suddenly, Illya realizes he is standing still, and staring. He looks away from Napoleon, who is taking an unnecessarily long time to tie his shoe. Illya thinks how once everything is lit up, and the dark is gone, the paths he chose to follow seem disorganized and inefficient. Why did he make that turn, instead of going straight, why did he take such an indirect route to the end? Following the light of reading Napoleon’s body makes for an irregular map. It leads to Napoleon having marks on his backside that Illya has to think about while walking across the downs in broad daylight.

Instead of straightening up, Napoleon crouches down so that he finishes tying his shoes while looking straight up at Miss Rowelson from his perch by her feet.

It leaves his face inches away from her groin, and his eyes at a supplicating angle, in a painfully obvious way. It would make Illya’s stomach drop, if he were in her place. But she simply turns and continues walking north.

Napoleon doesn’t so much as look in Illya’s direction before rushing to catch up with her.

With the sting of absent eye contact, Illya realizes what is bothering him so much about Napoleon’s behavior: he is acting as though he does not care about having an audience. Napoleon _always_ wants an audience. Every other time Napoleon’s seduction techniques fail to be noticed by their target, he winks or smirks in _someone’s_ direction, often Illya’s, to make sure at least somebody noticed his suave move, or to share in laughter at his failures. Sometimes, lately, Napoleon even does some suggestive thing, such as sucking on his needle-pricked thumb, for the benefit of the lady, _while looking across the room at Illya_. It makes Illya blush, yes, but he also can never bring himself to take it seriously, and rolls his eyes every time.

Illya often is left out of Napoleon’s successful ventures, as Napoleon thrives off the audience he’s getting from whichever lady is currently swooning over him. Even then, though, Napoleon will sometimes throw a glance in his direction that communicates something along the lines of _Look how easy this is for me._ And Illya often chuckles or rolls his eyes.

But this situation falls into neither of those two categories, into which all previous endeavors fell.

It’s not jealousy that Illya is feeling, though he must ask himself that before realizing quickly that the answer is no.

It is some kind of embarrassment.

Napoleon is making a fool of himself. He is exposing himself to no one, pushing his buttocks into the air for no one to see. And it is for nothing. It is not bringing them any closer to the information they need, and this woman, while somewhat pretty in a middle-aged, English sort of way, is not even Napoleon’s type.

It’s like watching a horrific accident occur. Illya is repulsed by an almost physical discomfort, but he cannot look away.

“Tell me, Miss Rowelson,” Illya manages to say once he is only a few steps behind her. He must give another effort to realign their mission onto its track. “My brother-in-law tells me there are rumors about this land. That this land was once owned by a great family.”

The lady scoffs. “A great family,” she repeats. Waving her hand dismissively in the air, she says gruffly, “I suppose that’s possible.” There is something there, something she is pretending isn’t _worth_ discussing, but which she probably doesn’t _wish_ to discuss.

Illya addresses Napoleon, his supposed brother-in-law. “Maybe I get stories mixed up. What was it, the rumor you heard?” He expects Napoleon to take up this new approach and do the talking.

Instead, Napoleon opens up his briefcase mid-stride and procures a basket of strawberries.

_Strawberries._ Of all the impractical things.

“Oh, I don’t know,” Napoleon says, sounding more American than ever and shrugging as though he barely even paid attention to the conversation. “People will talk. Would you like a strawberry?”

This is addressed to Miss Rowelson, who barely looks at Napoleon before she shrugs and accepts one, eating it in a businesslike manner.

Frustrated at this whole situation, Illya reaches into Napoleon’s stupid basket and takes a strawberry, unbidden. Napoleon doesn’t seem to notice. He is too busy pressing a strawberry to his own lips in an absolutely _obscene_ fashion, pushing it into his mouth, biting down in a way that makes his defined jaw muscles tense more than necessary, and drawing the fruit back out with his cheeks hollowed, trying to suck down the juice rather than letting it slide down his lips.

Illya is—-infuriated. That’s what he is.

He throws his own untouched strawberry violently into the muddy grass at their feet, his mouth too dry and his stomach too upset with frustration to eat anything.

He helplessly watches Napoleon violate half the strawberries in the basket, while Miss Rowelson chats about nearby farms and seaside fruit in a tone of voice that most people reserve for reciting their shopping lists.

This should all be so _comical_. If Napoleon would just spare a single smirking glance over his shoulder, Illya could laugh about the whole thing and relax for the remainder of the walk, maybe even think about something useful, like what approach to getting the information they should try tomorrow.

Instead, Illya can’t focus on anything but the sickening combination of embarrassment on Napoleon’s behalf, frustration, pain, and a vague sense of being trapped.

Illya is just beginning to hope that the remaining kilometers will pass by without further incident when Napoleon suddenly complains about the “unbearable” heat.

Illya shakes his head to himself, hoping _no, no, please no_ , even though he knows where this is heading. He wants to wrestle Napoleon to the ground and pin him down so he can’t do anything else stupid. He wants to throw a blanket over his perfectly shaped, perfectly groomed, idiotic face so that nobody else can bear witness to this humiliation.

Before he can do either of these things, Napoleon is doing the unthinkable: he is unbuttoning his shirt, and untucking it from his trousers.

Illya’s stomach curls tight like a fist. Napoleon has a very different sense of propriety from his own, but in some ways, it involves _more_ decorum. Napoleon never walks around without a shirt on, because he would never be caught without a good dress shirt on. Or at least a nice sweater. It’s not the nudity or the exposure so much as it is the informality. This—stripping under the sun to the layer of his undershirt—is unheard of.

This has all the badness of watching a pathetic dog try to win the affection of someone who hates dogs by licking their face and jumping on them. But it is worse, because it involves seeing the strain of Napoleon’s muscles just under the skin of his shoulders, his strong arms, and the sheen of sweat at the base of his neck, all for someone who doesn’t even care enough to be scandalized.

In its progress off Napoleon’s body, the shirt gets caught around his wrists, trapping them together behind his back. Illya curses almost silently to himself. Napoleon is fastidious about undoing the cuffs before removing his shirt, so this was an intentional oversight. Unlike the last time Illya saw him like this, when he was lounging casually on a hotel bed and said something infuriating that made Illya _need_ to get at his skin as quickly as possible, and Illya had maybe ripped a few buttons in his rush to get his mouth on Napoleon’s ribcage, and definitely didn’t bother freeing his wrists until Napoleon was flipped onto his stomach with his face pressed chokingly into the bedspread.

This time, Napoleon manages to get himself out of his tangled sleeves. He loosely folds the shirt and drapes it over one shoulder, and they resume their hike.

Illya attempts to focus on their surroundings. The open sky with a storm very far on the horizon, the blue of the sea behind them. The weather is not actually hot today. Not cool enough to wear a full suit, no, but not warm enough to justify wearing only an undershirt.

Which is probably why every time Napoleon turns to address the unflappable Miss Rowelson, his profile includes obviously hardened nipples.

Illya notices this. He does not know when he turned into a man who notices that Napoleon Solo’s nipples are hard. He does not know when he began considering the effect of the temperature on a man’s nipples. He does not even like the English word, _nipple_. Yet imagining the tightening of Napoleon’s skin in its exposure to England’s version of summer heat makes Illya’s skin tighten in return. His stomach as well.

Illya gives up trying to focus on the weather. Instead he looks through the thin white material of Napoleon’s undershirt at the developing bruises on his lower back from where he was kicked in the kidneys early this morning.

This morning. Illya grimaces. Maybe self-reprimand will distract him from the way Napoleon’s back muscles swell enticingly beneath his shirt with every stride. He has been avoiding facing the truth of his reaction this morning. When he had watched those men kicking Napoleon ruthlessly, Illya’s thoughts were not to protect Napoleon from getting hurt; they were that those men did not _deserve_ to be causing those lovely grunts of pain. He was not filled with anger or righteousness, but with the mild injustice of _they don’t realize that Napoleon’s lower back had recently been sore from holding himself at an acute angle while Illya gripped his hips and thrust into him; that is what his back should be sore from, not from being kicked by ruffians who don’t know anything about the skin they are bruising._

And even as he thought it, Illya felt wrong, guilty, and sick. His thoughts were not protective. They were possessive.

It was the same, some weeks before, shortly after Illya discovered that pulling Napoleon’s hair made his muscles melt into pliant warmth. Napoleon had a gun to his head, and while Illya set his own down, the man with the gun pulled Napoleon’s head back using a thick handful of hair, and the sound that Napoleon made sent shivers down Illya’s spine, pooling in the pit of his stomach.

And Napoleon met his eyes from across the room, just as he blindly looked in his direction across the courtyard this morning. It was a particular set to his jaw, a shine in his eye, which laughed _with_ Illya. Napoleon may be physically incapacitated, but he was in control, because he was the one sharing a joke with Illya.

It’s the look that Illya reminds himself of every time he begins to fear that his focus on Napoleon endangers him, that he takes his safety for granted; if he is taking Napoleon’s safety for granted, then so is Napoleon. Perhaps Illya’s only error is in becoming too much like Napoleon, then. Each time, they come out unscathed. Each time, Napoleon is in control.

Illya’s focus returns to the present when Napoleon trips and stumbles over an uneven patch in the ground. It happens because he wasn’t watching his step. It happens because his eyes are fixed on Miss Rowelson, like he is desperate to prove himself to her.

The thought suddenly crosses Illya’s mind that the woman is some kind of siren, who turns even the most charming of men into desperate, out of control, _embarrassing_ fools.

He dismisses the thought, naturally.

They come to the crest of a hill, at the foot of which is nestled a train station that Illya would take for a cottage were it not for the tracks leading to and from it. At this time, Napoleon slides back into his shirt, turning to Miss Rowelson for help with adjusting his collar and making sure his buttons are straight.

He bites down on his lower lip while tucking his shirt back under the waist of his trousers, and that bite, for once, seems an unconscious movement.

It does not make Illya’s stomach ache any less.

As they make their approach to the station, it dawns on Illya that after this excruciating hour of torture, he cannot go on simply to the next task pretending this didn’t happen. He realizes that he has been subconsciously waiting for the next opportunity to pull Napoleon aside and ask him exactly what was going on in his head, and that the need to do that is not going to go away as soon as Miss Rowelson steps onto the train.

“Thank you, Miss Rowelson, for the tour of your property,” Illya says in a rush the instant they reach flat ground. He grabs Napoleon by the elbow and feels Napoleon’s arm tense under his palm. They rush through their farewells and thank yous, but Illya hardly notices how Miss Rowelson receives them, as he is too busy feeling Napoleon’s pulse speed up in his hand.

Once their guide is safely on the railway platform, Illya drags Napoleon by the elbow to what must be the empty station’s restroom.

“If I’d known how badly you needed to go, I’m sure we could have found you a tree to hide behind along the way,” Napoleon says breathlessly. Illya is fairly certain he hears more than the usual smirk in his voice, but doesn’t know for sure until the bathroom door is closed behind them and he slams Napoleon’s back up against it.

Napoleon does not look at all like someone who didn’t get what he spent an hour trying to acquire.

In fact, he has the smug look of someone who got exactly what he wanted.

Illya shudders violently in confusion. “What was all of that?”

Infuriatingly, Napoleon practically beams up at him, showing a grin he doesn’t show often. His blue eyes sparkle even in the poorly lit room. The briefcase drops to the floor with a heavy sound. Napoleon’s hands drift into the space between their bodies, a mockery of surrender. “All of what?” he says in a failed attempt at innocence.

Illya rushes forward, pressing into whatever space was still between them. He pins Napoleon’s hips with his own, and feels the satisfaction of trapping him after an hour of feeling trapped.

As their bodies meet, Napoleon’s teeth catch on his lip once again, and his eyes barely manage to hold a steady gaze into Illya’s own.

And this is how it always is with Napoleon. Illya does not even realize he is aroused until he is aroused beyond the point of reason.

Fighting the urge not to smear that infuriating smile off of Napoleon’s mouth with his own, Illya takes in a ragged breath. “The strawberries. The—-shirt.” He makes fists in the loose collar of Napoleon’s shirt for emphasis, and to ground himself. “You look foolish, slobbering all over her like a dog.”

“Why, Illya,” Napoleon says coolly. His voice is always so cool, even when Illya can feel his breaths come faster and faster. It is infuriating. “Are you… _jealous_?”

“ _Embarrassed_ for you,” Illya replies without a moment’s pause. “You know I am not jealous of any of them, they have nothing to do with me,” Illya hears himself murmuring. “They are jokes. We laugh. Today, I laugh _at_ you.”

Napoleon’s face is split in two: the half-lidded part of him clearly focused on breathing in Illya’s exhalations, which makes Illya want to give him all his breath if he likes it so much; the smirking part of him barely keeping it together, until—

Napoleon laughs. Frustrated but not at all angry, Illya grinds his hips forward into Napoleon’s, hears the resounding thud against the wooden door. Napoleon’s laughter is cut off by a low groan, and his head tilts back to thud against the door as well.

Suddenly the room fills with the rushing water of a toilet being flushed, and a stall door creaking open.

Sheepishly, a short elderly man edges toward the door. He gestures to the door handle while avoiding eye contact with either of them, muttering a string of words, _don’t want no trouble_.

Napoleon’s face sharpens into its habitual lines as he looks into Illya’s eyes. “Temporary truce?” he says, in his steady, slyly assertive way. “Just long enough to allow the gentleman to clear the room.” Illya tries to regain control of his mind, while Napoleon’s face twists mildly. Under his breath, but not to quiet enough to be polite, he adds, “Though the smell may take longer to join him.”

Illya catches a glimpse of self-control, and grabs hold of it. “Yes, I think we can…put a stop to this… _fight_ , long enough that the gentleman should pass.”

Napoleon grabs the door handle next to his hip and starts to pull it forward. Illya makes a move to back up to give him room to swing the door open, but Napoleon reaches with his other hand to hold him in place by the back of his shoulder. Illya then realizes just how physically aroused he is, and Napoleon as well, and this is how it always goes with Napoleon: feeling good before he realizes the situation feeling good has led him to.

Awkwardly, they inch in unison toward the center of the room, just enough that the portly man can fit through the opening in the doorway. Napoleon’s eyes are glittering at him the entire time, teasing him, and Illya tries to hold onto caring that he is being teased, but falls into the blue sea of Napoleon’s eyes, and wanting more.

The man leaves abruptly, without another word.

Illya shuts the door, once again, using Napoleon’s body. Napoleon’s lips part as he gasps, and then part further when Illya makes a fist in his dark, satiny hair.

And then, as it always is with Napoleon, Illya makes the first undeniable move. He fits his lips to Napoleon’s and kisses him like breathing doesn’t matter.

The hand that’s still resting on Illya’s back clutches him tighter, and Napoleon’s other comes to Illya’s jaw and holds it, as though he wants to feel as much of this kiss as he can from inside and out, and that thought makes Illya’s jaw drop and let in Napoleon’s tongue. Illya tries to remember to breathe again, because breathing means breathing in Napoleon’s taste.

“I—happen—to know—” Napoleon gets out choppily, as Illya’s kisses drift from his lips to his jaw and back again, “you like dogs.” Illya pulls Napoleon’s hair until his throat is exposed, and bites down near the ridge of his Adam’s apple. He has no idea what Napoleon is talking about. It is probably some clever comeback to a forgotten line of conversation. Napoleon is always trying to be clever, more than Illya can be bothered to care about. Napoleon is always trying to assert control.

The knowledge washes over Illya in a vague way, just one of many waves surging through his bloodstream in this moment: Napoleon has been playing him from the start.

Illya pushes away the thought, not wanting to give Napoleon the satisfaction of having his cleverness analyzed. “You,” Illya says simply against the pale skin at his lips, “Are _ridiculous_.”

Napoleon’s right hand slides down his back, down, down, and squeezes, pushing Illya’s groin directly against his. Illya’s breath catches in his throat, his face disengaging from where it was tucked against Napoleon’s collar.

“Shut up and kiss me,” Napoleon demands, and so Illya does.

Then Napoleon doesn’t need words, because Illya is following that brightly lit path, the one guiding him along Napoleon’s body so assuredly he doesn’t question a single motion.

With Napoleon’s shirt mostly removed, Illya pins his arms above their heads with one hand on the connective tissue of the shirt, and finds himself licking across the dark hairs of Napoleon’s underarm, mindlessly seeking more of his smell, his taste, his skin. He bites down gently, coarse hairs caught between his teeth, Napoleon groaning to his right as he watches. Illya clutches his free hand in the flesh of Napoloen’s side, and wonders for whose pleasure this is, wonders if there is actually any clear distinction between his pleasure and Napoleon’s.

Illya’s bites travel up Napoleon’s extended bicep, while Napoleon, with a somehow liberated hand, slides into the back of Illya’s pants, against his skin, and presses a fingertip, just so, just barely, _inside_ of him. They both let out mutually pathetic whimpers at that. Illya pauses to catch his breath with the pressure of Napoleon’s forehead hard against the side of his skull, his hot exhalations making sweat or condensation drip down his neck.

Napoleon gets both hands free and slides them up inside Illya’s sweater. They scratch the skin there idly while their mouths meet intently. They share breaths, and tongues against lips, and noses against cheeks, and Illya loses himself for a moment.

Until Napoleon breaks away long enough to say, “Illya,” in his cruelly collected voice, his gaze steady beneath unfairly dark eyelashes. “Fuck me, Illya.”

A great piece of Illya’s soul drops down through his stomach and much, much lower. Napoleon makes an obscene noise as he feels the pulsing against his thigh, and Illya may die soon if one of them isn’t free of his pants in the next ten seconds.

Napoleon has the same idea, and makes quick work of Illya’s belt. He leans his mouth forward, whispers into his ear, “Your cock, Illya.” Unbuttoning the already strained fabric, “Give it to me.”

Illya’s vision goes white when Napoleon touches him. It’s not just the touch, but the filth coming from Napoleon’s swollen red lips. There are so many things Illya isn’t comfortable _thinking_ about the things they do together, things he could never even admit to never being able to say, not even in a language he was more comfortable with. Recently, Napoleon has started putting them into words, something he clearly refrained from the first few times until he saw the effect it had on Illya.

When Illya’s vision comes back to him, he immediately has to seal his eyes shut against the sight: Napoleon crouched on his heels, looking up at him with his lips inches away from Illya’s… _cock_.

“Illya. Illya.” Napoleon says his name, devastatingly, repeatedly, until Illya manages to open his eyes again to meet his gaze. Only then does Napoleon close the final inches of space and use Illya to impale his mouth on.

Trying so hard not to cry out, and fighting to keep his stinging eyes open, Illya looks down far enough to notice the crest of Napoleon’s forearm disappearing beneath the waistband of his own pants. Illya watches those muscles flexing and straining, and can tell, there in the darkness between Napoleon’s splayed, crouched legs, that Napoleon is working himself open on his own fingers.

Illya grabs Napoleon by the hair and pulls him off abruptly. Another second, and it would have been all over. He shuts his eyes again and breathes, using his grip in Napoleon’s hair to hold him at a distance, even though the little devil keeps canting forward, either trying to resist and get his mouth on what he wants or enjoying the restraint.

Once he feels a safe distance from the precipice of climax, Illya opens his eyes. The first thing he sees is a string of Napoleon’s saliva dripping from the tip of his aching erection onto the grimy floor between Napoleon’s muddy dress shoes.

In one movement, Illya drops to his own knees and pushes Napoleon up until he is once again standing against the door.

“Fuck, Illya,” Napoleon says. In response, Illya drags Napoleon’s torso down by the center of his undershirt just enough that he can get his mouth around one of those damned, still-hard nipples. Through the thin fabric, he can’t taste the skin, but he can feel the warmth, and he can feel Napoleon arch into it, his incredibly awkward half-bent position doing nothing to deter him from dragging his fingers down the back of Illya’s skull and pushing into the wet pressure. “Fuck, Illya,” he says yet again.

They must be magic words. They make Illya do such things.

He pushes Napoleon upright again and takes only a minute to lick at the trail of hair dusted across trembling abdominal muscles as he finishes unfastening Napoleon’s pants.

Once his trousers join the pool of Napoleon’s spit Illya knows is there on the ground, too—Illya shudders to remember it—he shoves Napoleon around and uses one hand to grind Napoleon’s chest into the door. He watches the way the pressure of his hand distorts the back of Napoleon’s shirt, and the skin beneath it.

“Fuck, yes,” Napoleon hisses against the door. He reaches behind him and grabs Illya’s hair, shoves Illya’s face down to where he was headed anyways. “Lick my asshole. Ill—”

His voice is cut off by a groan as Illya does what he is told.

Illya sighs into it, closing his eyes and sinking into the feel of Napoleon pressed right up against his face like this. His tongue slips easily in and out of where he’s already stretched open. His lips drag wetly across skin that makes Napoleon’s whole body tremble. He refuses to think about what it means, but Illya loves the taste of him here. He sucks it up, licks it up, pushes his spit up inside Napoleon’s body, and thinks about how, after, this part of Napoleon will taste like Illya.

Napoleon seems to be done talking. It doesn’t matter; Illya can taste that he is ready.

He spits what’s left of his saliva into his hand and smears it over the layer of Napoleon’s saliva that still remains on him. He gives one moment’s warning: aligns himself right against Napoleon’s swollen, wanting opening, but it only makes Napoleon’s breath crest faster in anticipation.

And then, he sinks in.

Illya loses his sight again, but he hears Napoleon make a guttural noise that he wants to hear over and over again. Napoleon braces both forearms against the door and arches into that position that will make his back sore later. Illya holds his curved shape close with one arm strapped firm across Napoleon’s hips. He props his other elbow against the door between Napoleon’s and winds the same hand around the back of Napoleon’s neck, locking him in.

The first time he took Illya inside him like this, Napoleon had said it had been a very, very long time, and that they would have to go slow. Things seem to have changed since then, because Napoleon gets impatient very quickly. He shoves back all the way, then pulls himself off, urging Illya to drive forward, back into that tight warmth.

Illya has never felt anything like Napoleon’s body. Its heat seems too real to be real. The pleasure he feels being against any part of Napoleon resonates too deeply in his self to be caused by anything external. _Fucking_ Napoleon is what Illya suspects people mean when they speak of a religious experience. It is too much. He is always somewhat surprised when it doesn’t kill him.

He thrusts into Napoleon’s eager body with a relentless rhythm. He pauses only to adjust his grip on Napoleon’s hip, for more leverage. He bites down on the fabric of Napoleon’s undershirt, and listens to the involuntary gasps he shoves out through Napoleon’s lips.

Seeing without really seeing, Illya watches the door gape open a few centimeters, as though someone on the other side of it is pushing it. Illya merely shoves harder into Napoleon, effectively shutting the door. Napoleon has the presence of mind to slap his hand against the door twice, forcing out the words, “I highly—reco—recommend—the ladies’—ladies’ room.”

The person on the other side disappears from their minds, and Illya slows his movements, only to slide in with sharper thrusts. He mouths across Napoleon’s back, straining to watch Napoleon’s smooth-shaven face grow acutely red as he gets closer.

“Feel good?” Illya rasps out. His throat is so dry. He slides his palm across the sweat-slicked black hair at the back of Napoleon’s skull.

“Fuck, yes, Illya.”

Illya licks his lips, and thrusts hard, picking up speed at the angle that he knows makes Napoleon’s knees weaken. “Would I like it?”

Napoleon has no words in response, just a faint, crying whine as his face crumples in on itself and he bites down hard on his lip as he climaxes. His body clamps down on Illya and the convulsing and tightening take him by such aching surprise, like he’s never felt anything so beautiful in his life as Napoleon coming undone with no touch but Illya inside of him, like he can’t believe he makes Napoleon feel so good.

He seals their bodies together one final time, and spills everything he has, deep inside Napoleon’s body, in shuddering places Illya can’t say the names of, and he forgets the names of everything else in the world for more than a few moments.

He feels himself slipping out wetly, while Napoleon tries to straighten under the weight of Illya’s mostly limp body. He shakes his head, and tries to come to his senses.

“Jesus Christ, Illya, you don’t just spring that on a guy like that.” Napoleon seems to have found his tongue already. He then proceeds to lose his tongue again between Illya’s lips. Apparently, he isn’t too upset about Illya’s poor timing. “I am not finished with you today,” he says in his reprimanding voice that doesn’t hold much threat.

Illya watches with mild interest and mild panic as Napoleon kneels at his feet again. But all he does is wipe Illya clean using his own undershirt, which he removed at some point. He manipulates him gently, which Illya appreciates. As he pulls Illya’s pants and underwear up and tenderly over his sensitive parts, Napoleon looks pointedly up at him. “Yes, you would like it,” he whispers.

Illya takes a moment to recall what he is referring to, and then blushes to remember the things he said, things he asked for, when surrounded by Napoleon’s radiant heat and light.

Instead of addressing the issue, he bats Napoleon’s hands away and finishes his belt buckle himself. “You endangered our mission,” he accuses, suddenly remembering why they ended up here, getting dressed in a dirty train station bathroom.

Napoleon scoffs from his position on the floor. “Endangered?” he repeats skeptically.

Illya watches as Napoleon wipes himself clean using the same sacrificed shirt, the shirt that has been giving Illya a hard time for an unreasonable portion of the day.

“We were ordered to get information. Instead of trying to get information, you spent an hour trying to…” Illya searches for an appropriate term for what Napoleon did.

“Rile you up?” Napoleon offers. He stands up, bringing his pants up with him. He tosses the filthy shirt into the rubbish bin and begins fastening his belt.

“Yes, rile me up.” Illya isn’t even sure if he is still trying to be infuriated, or if these are only words he must say. “You wasted precious mission time. Now we lost our chance with…With Miss…” He suddenly can’t remember her name, but it doesn’t matter, because Napoleon cuts him off.

“Oh please, I could tell after the first thirty _seconds_ that any of our efforts were going to fall flat.”

That honestly surprises Illya. “Really?” He tries to remember, wonders what he could have missed.

“Did you see her housekeeper? Her name may as well have been Mrs. Danvers.”

Illya does not remember a housekeeper. He vaguely remembers the lady of the house talking to someone other than the two of them, but he was looking at Napoleon at the time. Nor does he know who Mrs. Danvers is.

“Who is Mrs. Danvers?”

Napoleon purses his lips and walks over to the sink to wash his hands. “Suffice to say, it was obvious immediately after Miss Rowelson so adamantly informed us that the property was not for sale, that she would be one hundred times more eager to talk a naive young tourist named Gaby Teller about her family history than she would be to give us so much as a passing glance. I gave up on our mission after the first minute.”

Illya still doesn’t quite know what Napoleon is getting at, but he accepts it. Except…

“So the whole thing? The entire walk? That was just to…rile me up?”

Napoleon dries his clean hands on a towel and starts adjusting his hair in the mirror. Illya supposes he should wash his hands, too, and begins to do so.

Napoleon stops playing with his hair, and watches Illya in the mirror. He visibly hesitates, then answers, “Yes.”

“But… you ignored me.”

With a cocked head and a casually upturning hand, indicating that the answer was obvious, Napoleon said very seriously, “To rile you up.”

Illya pools water between his palms and rinses his face off. He does not want to admit the fact that Napoleon’s attentions make him feel strangely special. Nor does he want to give Napoleon the satisfaction of an annoyed reaction. Once he finishes, he merely says to Napoleon, “One of us should probably hit the other. In the face. So that people who heard us out there know we were…wrestling.”   
Napoleon lifts an arched eyebrow. “I was kicked repeatedly this morning after being dragged and thrown into gravel. And you aren’t exactly gentle yourself.”

So much for that. Illya smiles. He didn’t really want to mark up that pretty face, anyhow. “I guess I volunteer.”

Two minutes later, Napoleon’s shirt is buttoned up over his bare chest, and Illya’s eyebrow is split and his head aching. They open the door and Illya follows Napoleon out quietly.

The only person standing in the lobby is Gaby.

“What happened to you, Illya?” she asks, sounding concerned. “Why can’t I leave you two alone for two hours without one of you getting beaten up?”

Illya clears his throat, while Napoleon fails to hide his smug smile. “Is just a single punch,” Illya says, which is a truthful, if incomplete, answer.

Gaby raises her eyebrow impatiently, but lets the subject drop. She sighs and starts them all on a path to the paved road, where she most likely has a car ready for them. “I see you boys had an easier job than I did today. Edith Rowelson sure is eager to chat.”

Illya looks over at Napoleon, who is looking at Illya with his brows furrowed elegantly. “What?” they ask simultaneously.

Gaby gestures meaninglessly in the air. “I ran into her at the next station over. I didn’t even recognize her from the photos, not until she introduced herself to me for seemingly no reason. Said I looked lost, so I played that up. She invited me over to dinner and everything, took about five minutes to tell me all about her house and the grounds and the amusing story of how she acquired it two years ago. She must have told you all about the eccentric Mr. Jacobson in a matter of minutes as well, I assume?”

“Oh, it was a matter of thirty seconds, Gaby,” Napoleon answers. “That woman does go on and on. We spent the rest of the time trying to get rid of her.” He ducks under a private smile, which Illya shares with him.

Not even gracing them with eye contact, Gaby says over her shoulder as she walks, “Ah, that must be why she punched Illya in the face, then.” She shakes her head silently and speeds up ahead of them.

“Yes,” Napoleon and Illya say in unison. Napoleon arches his eyebrow, not quite meeting Illya’s eyes, but still, Illya knows: he is Napoleon’s audience.

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for reading! I love this pairing and would love to write more... Leave a comment if you want to encourage me!


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